


Theft

by kaiz



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-03-25
Updated: 2000-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiz/pseuds/kaiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An older, wiser Kronos laments a youthful mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theft

"Though lovers be lost, love shall not."

\--And Death Shall Have No Dominion, Dylan Thomas

* * *

Moving quietly, I rise from bed at dawn and cross the room. My consort shifts in sleep but does not awaken. Pushing aside richly embroidered hangings, I unlatch the window; the shutters soundlessly swing wide on well-oiled hinges. The sky is white. Hard and sere. A strangely northern sky -- winter-pale and desolate -- misplaced above this fetid coastal city.

Leaning against the window embrasure, I scan the horizon and follow the waves inland to the nearby harbor where three of my warships rock gently, red and white sails furled. Lush green hills, dotted with dirty-white sheep, slope towards the rocky coast several miles distant. And in the courtyard beneath the window, the ghosts awaken and gather, stretching sleep-stiffened limbs, calling quietly to companions, bending their backs to my stronghold's daily tasks.

Mortals. The walking dead.

Teeming and swarming through my city and lands, breeding, bleeding, one step closer to death with every breath. Generally useless except to serve, worship or entertain. Completely mine. As I am now theirs: custodian, guardian, and keeper.

In rare, quiet moments such as these, a nameless ache tightens my throat, and I am irresistibly drawn to the northeast. Then, it is as if I can see past the ripening fields, beyond the mountains and the broad inland sea to the freedom of the steppes. Breathing deeply, I can nearly taste the dry rasp of late autumn and feel the wild, bitter edge of winter ice against my cheek. The bright arch of the sky stretches from horizon to horizon and a hard day's ride over gentle hills through long grasses and crushed wild flowers reveals only more sky. My horse's mane streams in the wind, harness bells jangling, flecks of lather spattering against my face. Beside me, my brothers ride, and our joyous laughter is swallowed by the endless cradle of earth and vault of heaven.

The stone window sill is cool and smooth beneath my finger tips though already, the damp, oppressive heat of the new day has slicked my face with sweat. Anchored here by the rusty iron fetters of rulership and responsibility, the high walls of the keep are a stifling prison. Now, I too am a thin, gray ghost. No more substantial than the others milling below.

Closing my eyes, I lean against the window frame feeling the prickle of sweat on my naked skin and the sour burn of ancient rage warm my belly. Once, I was a crackling storm of fire roaring through the tall grasses, consuming all in its path. Lightning, thunder and flame to his fathomless, razor-edged arctic ice.

And then, with one touch of his lips against mine, I was lost: my soul no longer my own.

*

Impatiently, I shifted from foot to foot and tried to ignore the itchy layer of grit and sweat on my skin. The thrice-damned sand crept into and under everything, leather armor and linen burnoose included. Choking dust rose in clouds as a flock of sheep were herded to market, and there was not a patch of shade anywhere. Only for _him_ would I stand in the oppressive mid-afternoon heat, haggling with a stooped, wrinkled merchant over a set of scrolls.

"Sorry, sir! So sorry!" The merchant's eyes were wide and his spidery hands fluttered in a reasonable imitation of dismay. "These are not for sale."

I resisted the urge to wrap my hands around his spindly, leathery neck and squeeze. I knew this game well. Claim the documents were too important to sell, that their presence was a mistake of some sort. Then inflate the price and sell for two or three times their true worth.

"My grandson placed them here by accident -- stupid boy!" He sharply cuffed a thin brown child standing beside the table. The grandson. Or, more likely, a slave. "They've been in my family for generations and have great sentimental value--"

Of course they did; I gritted my teeth. "Once again, merchant. How _much?"_

"--instead, perhaps I could interest you in--"

Methos would likely stand here all morning and argue with this fool. They'd share tiny cups of too-sweet tea, talk politics, complain about the weather and banter about calligraphy styles, all the while shaving the price downwards a bit at a time. My patience, however, has limits.

I leaned across the table and gathered a fistful of the merchant's striped tunic. Scrolls scattered in all directions as I dragged him across the table.

"How. _Much?"_

Nearly nose to nose with the merchant, I bared my teeth. The old man's mouth gaped but his bulging eyes betrayed a calculating gleam.

"For you, sir, I suppose I could make an exception--"

Wise man.

"--and let them go for only forty shekels."

As expected, nearly three times the fair price. I narrowed my eyes and growled. The seller in the adjacent stall politely averted his eyes.

"Ah. Well." He licked dry, cracked lips. His teeth were misshapen and yellowed. "How about thirty-five?"

The old man had balls, that much was clear. Too bad. And so I yielded to temptation, wrapped my left fist around his scrawny neck and squeezed. Gently at first.

"Twenty-five?" he croaked.

I shook my head and smiled pleasantly, tightening my grip. "Try again." His pulse fluttered deliciously against my palm.

"Twenty?" Hope warred with terror in the thin, quavering voice.

Idiot.

His eyes were blood shot and his lips blue when we finally settled upon my more reasonable price of eleven.

He crumpled to the ground in a tangle of wrinkled cloth and bony limbs when I released him. I tossed the coins at his feet and stowed my brother's gift in my saddle bags.

Then I smiled. "Nice doing business with you."

My skin crawled with immortal presence and I turned quickly to see my lean, hawkish brother crossing the busy street leading our horses. His amused gaze took in my bulging saddle bags and the sprawled, gasping merchant.

"Making friends, Kronos?"

"Methos!" I swung the pack over my horse's saddle and fell into step beside him. Pushing our way through the sweaty bodies thronging the street, I asked, "Did you find us rooms for the night?"

"I did." He nodded with satisfaction. "And I even managed to find us some evening entertainment as well."

I glanced warily at Methos, not quite trusting his tone. The whores in this scabrous town were notoriously louse-ridded. And though it was possible that he'd found a few pretty young bitches in the marketplace -- youngsters too easily impressed by his fine sword, long dark hair and poetic phrases -- I didn't relish the idea of being roused at dawn by their outraged and dishonored male kin. Nor did I much like the thought of having my spirit, along with my tongue, sucked out of my head by a silly fool with delusions of marriage. Damn the peculiar customs of these people! My face burned at the very memory. On the whole, tonight I'd rather have a toothless widow with a deep throat. Or perhaps a tight young boy, tied face down.

"Entertainment?" I asked suspiciously, remembering all too well his howls of laughter when I'd thrust the bitch away, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, checking to see that my tongue was still attached. "For us both, Methos? Or just for you?"

"You don't trust me?" Methos chuckled, obviously remembering the same incident years past. "Brother, I'm hurt."

"Oh, I do trust you, Methos." I assured him, slapping his back fondly. "With my life. Just not to pick my whores in this piss-hole."

We'd turned down a quiet, narrow street and Methos' laughter rang against the crumbling mud brick walls. I loved to hear him laugh, even at my expense.

"It was a _kiss,_ Kronos!" He grinned, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "You'd have thought she tried to cut off your balls!"

Smiling despite myself, I pushed him away. How I'd missed him these past few decades! Our brief meetings throughout the years were no substitute for his constant companionship. "She _chewed_ on my _tongue,_ Methos!" I protested hotly. "And she tried to steal my soul." My skin prickled as I remembered the close call and the cautionary childhood tales.

Midwinter. Huddled shivering around the central fire beneath an obsidian, jewel-strewn sky. The cadence of rhyme and song rising and falling like the grassy steppe, heavy as a heart beat. And the craggy fire-and-shadow chased face of the chanter as he warned against soul-theft by enemies, jealous ice spirits, betrayed friends and the hungry dead. Warned of the perils of an incautious sneeze or yawn. Or careless screams of rage, pain or triumph in battle. Of the resulting long, gray, impotent half-life that presages a hideous wasting death. I remember too, the hours spent learning the proper charms and the fearsome painted facial patterns to guard against soul-loss in battle.

Sometimes, old habits die hard.

Shaking his head slowly, Methos led the way into the small, well-kept courtyard of the inn; clearly a much finer establishment than when last we visited. The inn-keep's larcenous ways had obviously paid off.

"All these years and you still foolishly deny yourself that pleasure."

The tall, gangly stable boy directed us to two large box stalls. His easy, long-limbed grace reminded me of Methos.

"Pleasure?" I scoffed, testing the depth and cleanliness of the straw with my boot and finding it adequate. "There was nothing _pleasurable_ about it."

The very idea was obscene. Even had it looked enjoyable -- this disgusting touching of lips, mingling of fluids and vile slip-slither of tongue against tongue and tooth -- the danger of soul-loss was far too real to risk it. Though I've watched him do it many times, alternately fascinated and appalled, I've never been able to imagine why Methos finds it so appealing.

I reached over to lift the gear from my horse, but Methos stopped me, hand on my shoulder, edge of his thumb resting gently against my throat; the only person, man or whore, I'd allow so close. The hard length of his body pressed along my back, bearing the warm, pungent scent of his sweat and that of his horse. Turning to speak, I was caught by the odd look in his eyes and his slight secretive smile.

"Kronos." He said my very name softly, breath warm against my cheek. "Immortality is about change. Change and embracing new experiences. The past can be a prison, if you let it."

"Is that so," I said sourly. He'd said as much many times before, though never quite in this tone of voice.

Strangely, Methos didn't reply with his usual sarcasm. Instead, his hand slid up my neck, traced the scar across my beard-roughened cheek and then briefly brushed against my mouth. To my annoyance and confusion, his smile deepened.

"Why don't you see to the horses. I'll see to our rooms and arrange for a bath."

He gathered our gear and left without a backwards glance. Unsettled, I watched him depart, my lips tingling.

*

The water was warm, fragrant with herbs, and the young slave was pliant and attentive. Methos entered the room but his comment was lost when the slave poured cool water over my head, rinsing my hair.

"What?" I asked, my question muffled by the linen towel she wrapped around my head and face. It was a relief to finally be clean-shaven again, especially in this climate.

"I said, 'Much better'. You looked a bit rough around the edges."

I swept the towel away and flung a handful of water at him. He sidestepped neatly.

"You picked this stinking sand pit, Methos," I reminded him, standing and gesturing for another towel. Water ran down my legs, pooling on the carpet when I stepped out of the tub. The late afternoon sun had passed the window, leaving the room pleasantly cool and mostly in shadow.

"It was conveniently located."

Methos crossed the room and settled on the low bed against the wall. He tossed his sheathed sword and harness on the blanket beside mine and tucked his bare feet beneath him. The white linen of his loose tunic and trousers offered a pleasing contrast with the multihued pillows strewn across the bed.

"For you, perhaps," I retorted, raising my arms as the slave first dried my chest then sank to her knees to continue drying my legs and feet. "I spent three hard weeks in the saddle."

"That'll teach you and Caspian to terrorize the countryside like a pack of hungry wolves." Methos yawned and stretched out across the bed, blinking lazily. The rich, heavy length of his hair spilled across the pillow and gleamed in the soft light cast by the oil lamp.

"Wealthy and _powerful_ wolves," I corrected, grinning. I stalked to the bed, pushed him aside with my foot and lay face down on the expensive coverlet. The slave followed with a jar of scented oil. "You should have been with us, brother." Head resting upon my crossed arms, I relaxed under her talented hands and watched Methos closely.

"We've had this discussion before, Kronos," he said dismissively. But I detected a flicker of interest and disquiet in his half-lidded eyes. After all these years, he was finally growing restless. Time to push, just a bit.

"And we'll continue to have it until you see reason."

Eyebrow raised, Methos sat up and leaned back against the wall, hugging one knee to his chest. "It's that important to you."

I smiled to myself, seizing the advantage. "Your talents are wasted in these festering backwater cities, Methos. You deserve an empire." And I need you. To make my dreams real.

His long fingers plucked at loose threads on the blanket.

"Tell me you don't miss it, brother! Tell me honestly that you don't miss the freedom and the power!"

He closed his eyes and turned away, swallowing as if painfully. His distinctive profile was hidden by the dark curtain of his hair.

Rising to my knees, I pushed the slave away. "Leave us!"

After the door shut behind her, I leaned forward and curved my hand around the strong column of his neck, but he wouldn't meet my eyes.

"She has been dead for over forty years, Methos," I said softly but with a trace of command. "Your grandsons are grown and settled. You have honored your vow. It's time to let go of the past."

He went completely still under my hand and for a moment, I thought I'd pushed too hard. But then he turned to face me, eyes hot and bright, burning with too many emotions to name. Pinned by his direct stare, I felt dangerously exposed, suddenly aware of my nakedness, of a tingling heat in my lower belly.

"Yes, Kronos, it _is_ time." He agreed mildly, wholly at odds with the heat and intensity of his gaze. Smiling faintly, he ran a forefinger down my cheek, lingering across my mouth and for one brief instant, slipping inside.

Shocked, I leapt backwards away from his insinuating finger and tumbled gracelessly over the edge of the bed to the floor.

"Damn you, Methos!"

He laughed and leaned over the edge, offering a hand up. I snarled and slapped it away, disguising the roil of my emotions -- irritation, triumph and a peculiar nameless sensation of commingled atavistic dread and anticipation -- beneath a far safer facade of annoyance.

I rolled to my feet, gathered my clothes from the foot of the bed and began to dress. His challenge and unspoken offer were unmistakable, but I needed space and breath to consider it.

How much might it be worth? How much would I give? What _wouldn't_ I give, to have him with me again? To possess everything that he is: the depthless black ice of his resolve and loyalty. The brilliant, wicked blade of his intellect. His lean, pale beauty. To share our days and nights.

"Continue to annoy me, brother, and I'll misplace your gift in the midden."

Could I sacrifice this remnant of my past for him, for us? For me? Renounce my 'absurd primitive belief' as Methos called it, no matter how perilous the consequences and promising the rewards? Were our situations reversed, Methos, ever curious, wouldn't hesitate.

"A gift? For me?" Methos stretched out across the bed again, hands behind his head. "I'm touched."

I wasn't fooled by his nonchalance. "You should be."

The saddle bags I tossed him struck his exposed belly perfectly, as I'd intended. He grunted but sat up and dug into the leather pack with enthusiasm. Gifts have always had this amusing effect on Methos.

"You found it!" He said with disbelief and pleasure, holding the scrolls aloft. "I can't believe you remembered!"

"Of course I remembered." I sat down beside him and pulled on my sandals. His left shoulder brushed my right as he unrolled the text. "How could I possibly forget? You talked nonstop about it for nearly a decade."

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him scan the papyrus, pleased by his reaction. Many years have passed since he left me to follow a tiny, dark eyed beauty with ink stained hands. And yet, sitting beside him now, watching his graceful hands trace the glyphs, listening to his delighted translation of the scroll, our time apart was as nothing.

Suddenly, Methos paused and looked at me thoughtfully through narrowed eyes. "Is this a bribe?"

Watching the slight curve of his lips, I tried to imagine what it would be like to taste him. Would his lips be firm or soft? Would his tongue slide against mine, slick with our juices? Or would they rasp as the tiny buds caught and ground against one another? Would he taste sweet like a fat round grape? Or tart, like pomegranate?

I shrugged, feigning unconcern. "And if it is?"

He set the scrolls carefully aside and smiled. Evening had come and the room was now fully in shadow. Lamp light caressed his strong, proud features and streaked his hair, here and there, with gold.

"In that case, I'd say it is almost effective."

"Almost?" My voice sounded strangely harsh and my palms ached where my nails had bitten into the skin.

"Almost." He agreed and placed a hand upon my shoulder.

I tensed as his hand slid up my neck and his long, callused fingers traced the curve of my cheek and my lips. Only discipline and the resolve that he not see my fear kept my breathing steady. Kept me from striking his hand away. A midnight duel on a moonless night in pouring rain would have been less terrifying: there would have been far less at stake.

"Relax, brother. I promise it won't hurt." His eyes crinkled with laughter.

"Just get it over with, damn it!" I ground out from between clenched teeth.

He laughed outright, which didn't improve my mood. Irritated, I started to rise, but Methos wrapped his hand around my neck and tugged me forward, nearly into his lap. The lean muscles in his thighs flexed beneath my hands as I caught myself. His eyes were dark and the warm puff of his breath smelled of the thick, rich beer served in the common room below.

And I wondered: would my soul rise as if called? Waft up my throat like curling smoke? Would he drink it down slowly or with haste? Would it struggle and writhe?

"Trust me, Kronos. I won't steal your soul," he said quietly, the laughter in his voice replaced by something darker. Infinitely more dangerous. "Close your eyes."

I shivered, and then, perhaps foolishly, obliged.

*

I've fought blind before. Any arms master worthy of the title trains his students to fight effectively without sight. And I've trained with the best. Warfare is my talent. Like Caspian's gift for torture, Silas' skill with animals, and Methos' genius for strategy, terror and survival.

When sight is quenched, all other senses awaken sharply. The air drapes the body like silk, shifting delicately in response to one's opponent's movements. The most minute sound -- his rasping exhalations, the shift of cloth against his skin, the creak and jingle of harness and armor -- and the sharp scent of his sweat sketches his position and stance on the darkness behind the eyes.

And now, with Methos' fingers tangled in my damp hair and our knees touching, my body hummed with awareness and expectancy, resonated with the powerful song of his immortality. I twitched with the instinct to track and fight.

"This is not a battle, my friend." His voice whispered past my ear, warm breath against cooling skin; my breath caught. "Be still and enjoy."

Inhaling deeply, I forced myself to stillness. Intoxicating scents brushed past my senses: the sweet fragrance of jasmine, the tang of the exotic oil rubbed into my damp skin and Methos' familiar scent, warm, spicy and close. Tiny sounds followed: the hiss of the lamp, the quiet snap as soap bubbles burst on the cooling bath water, the chitter of monkeys and evening birds in the garden below the window. And then finally, the wash of heat and languid motion of his hand as he stroked along my neck and tilted my head to the side.

I gasped as his lips and the wet tip of his tongue traced the path mapped earlier by his fingers.

"Hush."

His sibilant whispers -- quiet, sensual words in an unknown language -- cooled the wet trail but only stoked the growing flame in my belly. I drew breath to answer, but exhaled with a sigh as his questing tongue reached the shell of my ear and dipped inside.

Unable to remain motionless, I slid my hands along his thighs, pulling him closer until I felt the familiar steady cadence of his heart against mine. His skin beneath the linen tunic was silk smooth over hard muscle and ridged spine. No overt scars marred the warm surface, though faint parallel tracks over shoulders and ribs attested to violence and captivity in his early years. He trembled slightly in my arms as I traced the ancient patterns.

"..." His murmur was tangled in a series of lazy licks and nibbles that trailed along the edge of my jaw and from ear to chin. A softness brushed across my lips and I knew a moment of icy terror. How had I forgotten to recite the warding charms?

"Methos!" I tensed, preparing to push him away.

"Shhh..."

His fingers brushed lightly against my cheek and then a warm slickness traced my lips: a gentle, unfamiliar dilation and softening of the tense flesh guarding the interior pathway to my spirit. It was an oddly vulnerable and yet exhilarating sensation. Like fighting while naked or intoxicated.

"Wait--" I gasped, struggling to recall my birth tongue, to shape the harsh syllables of the incantation with clumsy, tingling lips. But instead, he stole silently inside, accompanied by my indrawn breath. The slick length of his tongue tasted of beer and a seductive dark wildness.

Desperately, I gathered my will, tried to force my chaotic thoughts to stillness and recite the charm mentally. But even those efforts stuttered into silence, overwhelmed by his merciless and yet tender assault. Relentlessly Methos sought out and ravaged my sensitive, unclaimed spaces: a tiny patch behind my front teeth, the hollow beneath my tongue, the ridge at the roof of my mouth. Every space was filled, every surface laved with deep strokes mimicking the most sensual, lascivious rhythms of lovemaking.

Low in my belly, my spirit traitorously surged in response. It rose slowly, uncoiling up my spine and into my throat. Effortlessly, it dissolved the fragile wards I'd hastily established and lifted my tongue to slide and twine with his. And when at last he drew breath, tongue withdrawing into his mouth, mine followed it unbidden, seeking its lost companion.

As he drank down my shameful sounds of unwilling surrender, nibbling and sucking on my lips and tongue, I felt a dizzying, panicked rush, as if falling from a great height. My fingertips prickled and a bright roaring silenced my heartbeat.

"Kronos, look at me!" His voice seemed distant, a mere whisper and his palms were hot against my chilled face. "Breathe!"

I blinked slowly as my vision cleared of bright sparks, the roaring in my ears subsided and my rapid breathing eased. Worriedly, I took silent, internal inventory. My heart still pounded and my blood sang, though from lust, fear or the shock of soul-loss, I couldn't tell.

Methos watched me intently and even in the dim lighting I could see the flush along his sharp cheek bones and the amused, satisfied smile shaping his moist and swollen lips.

"Liked that, did you?" He chuckled darkly and then ran his hand between our bodies, pressing against the hard ridge of my erect cock. It seemed that his plans for our evening had changed. Or perhaps this had been his plan all along. Smug bastard.

I glared, still somewhat dizzy and as yet unwilling to acknowledge his victory. "It was fine."

"_Fine?"_ He looked stunned and mildly offended. "Just 'fine'?"

"Yes. Fine." I shrugged then lay back against the pillows in a blatant challenge. Lust had burned away the fear and made me reckless. With any one else I would have paused, been wary and far less foolhardy. But Methos is the brother of my heart. Even if he stole my soul, surely he'd give it back. "Perhaps you're out of practice."

Methos snorted then crawled across the bed to settle between my thighs. His eyes glittered in the lamplight and his hair tickled my nose when he lowered his mouth to my throat.

"Well then--" he remarked philosophically between light, sharp nips and a languid, one-handed effort to unlace my trousers. "--Obviously, I'll have to try harder."

"I suppose you will." And then, my laughter became a gasp as he took my naked cock in hand.

*

Daylight washed across the bed warming our tangled limbs. I stretched deliciously, spine and joints crackling.

Methos grumbled and shifted deeper into the bed clothes. "You forgot to draw the blinds."

"_I_ forgot?" I snorted and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

"It's your room."

"Huh." I rolled from the bed then whacked his head with my abandoned pillow. The lump beneath the sheets didn't move.

"Misbegotten son of sheep raper." His muffled words were barely intelligible.

I laughed. "And good morning to you too, Methos."

Ignoring his muttered rejoinder, I stepped over our swords, crossed the room and used the pot in the corner. The forgotten bath tub had leaked during the night and the edge of the rug was completely soaked.

On my way back to bed, I stopped before the window. Leaning against the wide, deep sill, I looked out over the garden and the awakening city and inhaled the warming air. The future seemed to stretch before me, an endless fertile plain of possibility. With Methos at my side, all things were possible.

I turned my senses inward and tried to detect a subtle lack or emptiness. Something to confirm the odd sensations I'd felt last night when he'd first kissed me. But this morning, I felt no different, nothing missing or absent. Just this wild elation and smoldering pleasure. And a familiar gnawing in my belly: in our distraction, we'd missed dinner.

A few moments later, Methos joined me, yawning and blinking sleepily. His long hair was tangled and wild and a reddened sleep-crease ran the length of one stubbled cheek. A flick of his wrist and the blinds clattered down, blocking the view.

I blinked.

"Much better," he muttered, then scratched his belly and wandered back towards the bed.

A simple kick to the back of his knee followed by a push to the opposite shoulder and Methos was sprawled face down on the bed. In the ensuing scuffle, we both landed on the floor, snarled in sheets, Methos on top, me flat on my back with his sword hilt digging into my kidney. He hastily rolled to the side when I thrust my knee between his naked thighs.

For a moment, we both lay on our backs panting raggedly. Then, I leaned over Methos, pressing our sweaty bodies together. Smiling, I brushed the tangled hair out of his face and tucked it behind his ear.

Methos reached towards me but I grabbed his hands, straddled his hips and then pinned his wrists to the floor. Last night, we'd renewed our partnership but the sun had yet to bear formal witness.

He immediately stilled beneath me and looked up expectantly.

"It's time, Methos," I said seriously. "Long past time. Today, we ride."

He smiled slowly. His face was flushed and his eyes were bright. "Yes, brother. We ride."

Releasing his hands, I allowed him to draw me down into a kiss.

I hid my smile of joy and triumph against the sensual curve of his lips.

*

Fists clenched, I turn from the window. My eyes burn as if I've stared too long into the sun.

Centuries -- no, millennia -- have passed since that morning. Since the day we rode through the crumbling city gates northward into the steppes and our destinies: two as one. Time should have worn the jagged edges from these memories, tumbled them smooth like river rocks and buried them deep, a cherished but cursed treasure. Instead, they lie just beneath the surface, their sharp contours too easily revealed by a certain color of the sky, the scent of ash and blood on the wind. Or the mercurial glint in a pair of hazel eyes.

Once, to deny them their power, I would have painted my skin, ridden into the mountains and fasted through the quartering of the moon. I would have shorn my hair and burned it, along with those of my possessions he had touched. But, even were I willing to indulge in foolish superstition, my hair is already short -- as is customary in this land -- and with few exceptions, my belongings from that time have long since turned to dust; too, the old ways claim that bronze can be purified using other means. Nevertheless, though these rituals might banish memory-born ghosts, they won't ease the hollow ache beneath my breastbone or quench my smoldering desolation and rage: only one act will.

A radical, permanent act that is denied me now; that I unwittingly denied myself when I allowed him to leave, centuries ago. Had he slipped away at midnight, stealthily, under the cover of the new moon, I could at least freely curse his name. Instead, foolishly, I'd helped him saddle his horse under a noonday sun. Clasped his arm in farewell. Watched him ride through the gates of my estate, unknowingly bearing his illicit cargo.

Assuming, of course, that the old tales are true.

Silently, I cross the room and sit upon the bed beside Delilah. Muted reflections -- weak sunlight on her jewelry left carelessly strewn on the bedside table -- dapple the pillows and her ivory skin. The flushed curve of her cheek is smooth, unlined. The sheen of mortal youth still gilds her sleek limbs and glossy dark hair. But all too soon, time will steal her beauty, quench the inner fire, the passion that burns in her eyes when we argue, when I take her. Already -- and even as she was born -- her life is waning and she is dead, a ghost.

As am I.

And so I will remain: a cursed, peculiar ghost. Until the time comes when I can reclaim what is mine.

If he still lives.

_Finis._

**Author's Note:**

> Angst and (believe it or not) schmoop.


End file.
